


His Image Like the Stars

by honeybun, Sabo (Sabou)



Series: Vacation in South Italy [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hopeless Romantics, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Vacation, veraverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo
Summary: Antonio, slurring a little, presses a palm to his chest and then takes up Lovino’s hand, ‘I’m-’ he halts, words caught in a lump in his throat, eyes blurring. Lovino makes a fussy noise, budging closer to him, chair against his thigh, hands clasping Antonio’s.‘I’m so lucky, to be here, with you, Lovino.‘
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: Vacation in South Italy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063904
Kudos: 10





	His Image Like the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [George deValier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=George+deValier).



> This story is embedded in George deValier‘s ‚Veraverse‘.
> 
> If you have not read either Bésame Mucho or Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart you might be confused with the references in this story.

They’d left Manfria somewhat in a daze, like leaving the dentist with anesthetic still causing numbness on one side of your face. 

It isn’t far then, not like the drive down South they’d already endured, that they still had ahead of them. The car has somewhat recovered from its trauma, and soon enough the tall stoney buildings of Palermo are in sight, makeshift structures put up all over the city as they experienced a building boom, history peeking out between the wood slats. 

Lovino is tired from driving, even after only a short while - his muscles so loose and relaxed he isn’t used to the jerks and pulls of the car. Instead of unloading their bags again straight away into the little hidden apartment he’d got for them, they go to drink wine in the square. There is acoustic guitar music drifting from one corner, pigeons peck around the stones for leftover crumbs and the two of them sit and enjoy the easy entertainment of watching people pass by.

Time moves quickly, the bright summer day turning into a breezy evening, purple streaking across the sky, and they’re on their second bottle of wine. 

The proprietor sends them off with a happy smile, bills left generously on the table, their time in Manfria hadn’t really soaked up much of their carefully saved cash, every evening out barely touching their wallets.

They sway together across the cobbles, wine easing their bodies, stumbling up the stairs with their bags quickly pulled from the car, scrabbling around for the light switch and tumbling into the clean apartment.

They discover it slowly, finding new rooms occasionally as the wine clouds their vision, there are two bedrooms and Lovino laschiviously whispers in Antonio’s ear that they’ll only be needing the one. 

Through the apartment lies a door to a balcony and a pair of chairs and table. Lovino pulls out another bottle of wine from their groceries and retrieves two mugs - he can’t find glasses yet, but in the morning will discover them hung up above the counter. Antonio is already sitting and watching as the sun sinks down to bed in the sea which rolls, black, when the sun disappears. He thinks again of Spain. 

They’re both swimming in wine when they hear the bells of several churches tolling midnight, and love comes quick and easy to Antonio, only more so when he’s soaked in wine and happy, happy that he can be here with his love, that everything he did must have had some sort of purpose, that it wasn’t all for nothing, instead it was for everything, for this moment now and all those that came before it, and for those after this, when they’ll lie in bed together tomorrow morning while Antonio spreads apart Lovino’s fingers and looks at the perfection of them. This person, meant for him, made for him by someone, and him, here just for Lovino, waiting ten whole years for him to even exist. 

Antonio, slurring a little, presses a palm to his chest and then takes up Lovino’s hand, ‘I’m-’ he halts, words caught in a lump in his throat, eyes blurring. Lovino makes a fussy noise, budging closer to him, chair against his thigh, hands clasping Antonio’s.

‘I’m so lucky, to be here, with you, Lovino,’ says Antonio, words clumsy, falling from his mouth without the grace the Spaniard is usually blessed with, ‘It’s only ever been you,’ he whispers, desperate and begging almost, that his words convey the meaning that he presses into them.

‘You put the stars in the sky, Lovi, you know that, dont you?’ Antonio presses Lovino’s hand to his chest, accent growing thicker as he struggles with his words, ‘For me,  _ for me _ -’ 

Lovino clucks his tongue and tries to ignore the sting in his eyes, ‘Such a sap, Tono-’ he leans forward and squeezes his eyes shut as their lips meet, hoping Antonio won’t realise how closely he grips to him. 

That night, sheets thrown off their shared double bed, the night sticky and too close anyway, Lovino contending with an overly warm Spaniard and Antonio liking the feeling of being bare -  _ heathen _ , says Lovino. 

Hands spread across linen sheets, lips mouth at salty skin, knees dimple the mattress and the night becomes only hotter.

As the two lovers lie, entwined, wine warming their blood and love filling them, Lovino’s fingers trail a path up and over Antonio’s chest, measuring his breath as he always does, listening as he falls asleep, as easy as anything, sleep softly settling into his bones. 

Lovino whispers then, into the dark room, a confessional between him and no one else, ‘You put them up for me, too,’ his face flushes, the ridiculousness of it all overcoming him even through the alcohol, ‘You always did.’

  
Lovino rests a burning cheek against Antonio’s chest, hair tickling his nose. He hopes he knows, that his words reach him through sleep, and that his actions will show he means it.  _ I love you, too.  _

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written by honeybun as a birthday present for me. Thank you 💐❤️.


End file.
